


At Any Cost

by klove0511



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 06, Angel Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Cuddling, Double Penetration, Face-Fucking, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, Self-Esteem Issues, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Spitroasting, Suicidal Thoughts, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klove0511/pseuds/klove0511
Summary: When Sam came back from Hell, he felt different. He couldn't put his finger on what had changed, but the buzzing under his skin was definitely new. It didn't matter, though. Whatever it was, Dean would help him figure it out. The only problem was that Dean is happily retired in Indiana with Lisa. He deserved that happiness; Sam should just let him have that, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If something seems wonky, it's probably because I'm posting this while sick. Apologies in advance, and I will try to fix any issues when I feel better.
> 
> This was written for the SPN Canon big bang, and my partner was the wonderful LeafZelindor! Go check out their work! https://leafzelindor.tumblr.com/post/186398501069/artwork-done-for-kloves-beautiful-fic-at-any

The first thing Sam became aware of was the feel of wet grass under his hands and face. It was cold, and as he lay there he could feel his shirtfront soaking through. Crickets chirped all around him, and the air was cool and damp with recent rain. It smelled like spring. Blinking open his eyes, the world was dark, and for a moment he thought he was blind. Then his sight adjusted, and the world was barely lit with a silver glow from the crescent moon. He could just make out gravestones. Looking closer, he realized it was _the_ cemetery. Stull. The last place he’d been alive. Only Dean was nowhere in sight.

Carefully, he picked himself up off the ground and took stock. Near as he could tell, he was alone and unhurt. That—was an odd feeling, actually. Flashes of remembered pain came to him—Lucifer cutting deep, Michael flash-burning him while the angels fought—and he pushed them away. He would have plenty of time to go over those memories later, if he wanted. Still, he examined the lack of pain closer. He felt amazing. Even his wrist—the one he’d broken a lifetime ago, which still ached most of the time—felt good.

On top of that, he became aware of a buzzing underneath his skin like static that wouldn’t discharge. There was an odd feeling between his shoulder blades too. Not an ache, exactly, but more like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It didn’t hurt though, so he chose to ignore both sensations for now. Finding Dean was a bigger priority.

Sam figured Dean must have done something, the asshole. He’d promised. He’d _promised_. Sam sighed. He couldn’t wait to find out what the consequences would be this time. Still, first things first. Find Dean. He patted down his pockets, hoping for a cellphone. No dice. Walking to town it was, then.

By the time he found change and a phone booth, the sun was creeping over the horizon. The phone booth smelled faintly of vomit and stale urine, but it worked. Sam took a steadying breath and called his brother. Nothing. Dean’s phone was out of service. Son of a bitch. Ok, plan B. Maybe he’d at least gone to Lisa at some point like he’d promised. Maybe she could point Sam in the right direction.

He managed to hitch a ride from a kind-hearted trucker heading to Chicago, a lucky break that would get him most of the way there. The guy tried to make small talk for a while, but he must have been able to sense the grief lurking under Sam’s cheerful veneer. He tried not to remember how Lucifer had snapped Bobby’s neck and vaporized Cas, but it was all he could see when he closed his eyes. He stubbornly ignored how he’d felt Dean’s face break under his hands or the lost look in his brother’s eyes moments before he’d jumped.

Sam was back from Hell, which meant Dean had done something. There were no alternatives, and Sam refused to entertain the idea that Dean might have already paid the price for Sam’s rescue.

As he hitched and hotwired his way from Springfield to Cicero, he poked and prodded at the Hell memories to keep his mind off Dean. He expected them to be worse. They certainly weren’t pleasant, and the longer he dwelled on any one memory the hotter the Hellfire burned, but overall, he found he could handle them if he didn’t look too closely. The strangest part, which gave him migraines if he thought about it, was his warped sense of time regarding Hell. According to Dean, a month topside translated to roughly a decade in the Pit. Sam struggled to make sense of his own experience. On the one hand, he felt like hardly any time at all had passed—perhaps a year. However, any time he started pulling apart the experience, it was obvious that everything Michael and Lucifer had done could not possibly have fit into one year and was even pushing the boundary of the 120 years equivalent. He wasn’t sure if the difference was that he had taken his body to Hell as well as his soul or if that crackling buzz that now lived under his skin was the source. In the end, he supposed it didn’t matter.

By the time he arrived in Cicero three days later, he’d talked himself through any number of scenarios for when he knocked on Lisa’s door, and his nerves were running thin. A tight ball of anxiety curled in his stomach, and the buzz under his skin intensified with every mile. It was disconcerting, but he pressed on. After all, who else could he go to? If Lisa couldn’t point him toward Dean, his next option was—uh. Jody, he supposed. Not ideal, maybe, but a cop would have resources he didn’t.

At night and just past the new moon, Lisa’s street was wreathed in shadow between the streetlights. Sam stood across the street, watching the scene play out inside her house. Dean and Lisa cuddled on the couch, watching TV. She looked like she was mostly asleep, leaning into his chest while he idly ran his fingers up and down her arm. Ben came downstairs, and Sam watched Dean dislodge Lisa enough to follow the kid back upstairs. Soothing a nightmare, perhaps.

Tears burned Sam’s eyes, and his heart lodged itself somewhere in his throat. Dean was here, just living his life. He had a family, a home. He was _out_.

It felt like Sam’s soul was pulling him toward the house, a constant thrum of _Dean, Dean, Dean_ timed to the beat of his heart. He resisted. It hurt, a physical ache at seeing him with Lisa, but he could not go to his brother now. He was sure that Dean hadn’t done anything to spring Sam, not if he was here, and if Dean hadn’t that meant something else had. Something capable of getting Sam out of Hell’s super-max. Without knowing what or why, Sam didn’t dare contact Dean. He would not be responsible for pulling him out of retirement when he’d clearly spent the last year building a life for himself. As much as he wanted his brother, Sam could figure this out on his own. He wasn’t dragging Dean back into the life if he could help it.

Slinking further into the shadows, Sam planned his next steps. Find a place where he could set himself up to stay for a while. Figure out what had brought him back. Find out why he felt fine even with only six cumulative hours of sleep since he’d been resurrected, and figure out if it was related to the aching back and how he sometimes felt like he was made of electricity (it was, he was sure of it).

He would go to Bobby’s for now. He wanted to stay close to Dean, but the library and resources at Bobby’s were unmatched, and he needed every advantage he could get. Never mind the convenience of a free roof over his head. It was easily his best option. He forced himself to turn away from the house and retreat further into the night. The sooner he got to Sioux Falls and solved this mystery, the sooner he could come back and see Dean.

Dean stared out the window. There was nothing there now, but he had been sure he’d seen movement. No, he’d been sure he’d seen _Sam_. It was impossible, of course. He shook his head, trying to convince himself it was just his imagination. It had been a rough couple days, that’s all. Of course he was seeing things. Sam had been on his mind lately. Well, Sam was always on his mind, but the anniversary of his death made it worse. It seemed like he’d been seeing Sam out of the corner of his eye constantly as the date approached. Tonight had just been another trick of his mind, morphing shadows into his brother.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. It was late, and Lisa had to work in the morning. He gently prodded her awake and sent her to bed. She murmured to him to not stay up too late, but they both knew that Dean wasn’t going to bed anytime soon. They hadn’t acknowledged it out loud, but Sam’s birthday was tomorrow and between the two anniversaries Dean had been a wreck all week.

He poured himself another tumbler of whiskey and took a long swallow. Maybe if he drank enough he wouldn’t dream of Sam tonight. He told himself he was happy. Most days he was, if he was honest. The bad days were—well. He made himself stay inside on the bad days now. Bedroom or living room only, ordering in for food. If he went to the garage he’d open Baby’s trunk, where he kept Sam’s duffel. If he did that on a night like tonight when he was already seeing Sam everywhere, well, he wasn’t sure there was enough sense in him to stop him from eating a bullet from Baby’s arsenal. He didn’t want to do that to Lisa and Ben, not without a plan in place so they wouldn’t be the ones that found him.

Maybe tomorrow he would call Bobby, see how he was doing these days. They could reminisce, even, if he wasn’t too hungover.

Sam ditched his stolen car two towns away from Sioux Falls and hitched the rest of the way. Safer, if he was going to be in one spot for a while. It was midafternoon when he arrived, and he was hit with an immense sense of _home_. This was his favorite time of year at Bobby’s, where it was finally getting warm enough for the plants to really come into their own and the world exploded into greenery. Bobby wasn’t close enough to the river to walk, but it was still incredibly beautiful just outside the junkyard. The junkyard itself, of course, had been his favorite playground as a child. Driving through it now, he was once again mildly shocked any adult had let him and his brother climb through the rusting stacks unsupervised.

He found the spare key Bobby had made for them hidden under a loose board on the porch, and he walked into the house. He was not expecting to be confronted with a shotgun pointed at his chest.

“Bobby?” he said, eyes widening in shock.

“Whatever you are, you better get the hell out of my house,” Bobby said, cocking the gun.

“Whoa, Bobby. It’s me. It’s really me.” Sam raised his hands in surrender. “Test me.”

Bobby glanced him over, obviously considering. Finally, he pulled out his silver knife. “Arm out.”

Sam grimaced but complied. He rolled up his sleeve and allowed the hunter to cut a deep slice into his arm. It hurt, but it was better than the shotgun. “See? Not a shifter. What’s next? Salt and holy water?”

Bobby nodded and handed over a flask. His shotgun never wavered.

Sam took a big sip, even though the salt water made him gag. Gagging wasn’t burning though, and Bobby looked marginally happier. Then he said, “How do I know you ain’t Lucifer in a Sam-suit?”

Sam blanched. It was a fair question. “Try to banish me, then.”

Bobby smirked and revealed a bloody palm before slamming it onto his desk. Convenient, if not very sanitary, Sam supposed.

For a second, nothing happened. Then Sam felt like he was burning from the inside out. Pain ripped through him, stealing his breath. He collapsed on the floor and curled into a ball, squeezing his eyes shut. He’d never experienced pain like this on Earth.

Eventually it was over, and he lay panting on Bobby’s floor, head pounding and throat raw. He groaned and wondered if Bobby was going to shoot him. He wondered if it was even really Bobby. It didn’t matter. It was obvious now. He’d come back wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam sipped his whiskey while Bobby watched him warily though he’d been sufficiently convinced Sam was who he said he was. Neither of them had an explanation for why Sam had reacted to the banishing sigil though, and Bobby was trying to insist they call Dean.

“Please, no. I can’t drag him into this. Especially not now. You and I can figure this out, fix me. He never needs to know. I’ll call him after we fix this. Please.”

Bobby grumbled but gave in for the moment. “You try calling Feathers yet? Betcha he can shed some light on this.”

Sam wasn’t sure exactly what to call his reaction to that casual revelation. Shock, mostly, but also relief, joy, maybe even regret. He hadn’t even asked yet how Bobby was alive, but if Cas was too, then he supposed he had his answer. Mutely he shook his head, then closed his eyes to pray. He heard one of Bobby’s phones ringing and the scrape of the chair as he got up to answer it. Sam took a deep breath and refocused himself.

Castiel’s first reaction to hearing a prayer directed at him was annoyance. The humans had been quiet lately—a good thing which had left him plenty of time to focus on the war efforts. Receiving a prayer in the middle of a staff meeting was less than ideal. However, he quickly realized it was Sam calling for him. He couldn’t go immediately, though he wanted to, but he would leave as soon as the meeting was over.

“Do we have any further reports on how Raphael intends to restart the Apocalypse?” he asked.

His lieutenants shook their heads. Fantastic. They knew what Raphael wanted, but they had precious little information on how he intended to make it happen. “That remains our first priority, then. We cannot prevent the Apocalypse if we do not know what events will lead to it. Rachel, where are we in recruitment?”

Rachel cleared her throat. “Largely stalled, sir. The angels that have not chosen a side seem to be waiting to see how the first skirmishes play out.”

Castiel closed his eyes. They would not win without vastly superior numbers, not against an archangel. “Thank you.”

“Sir?” she continued. “When are we going to strike? It is a question I have heard many times among the flights of angels on our side.”

“I do not want this war, and we will not strike first. We will not be responsible for the death of angels if at all possible.”

“You still hope to be able to negotiate?”

Castiel shook his head, annoyed that he needed to answer this question again and wanting to go to Sam. “Raphael will not back down. War is inevitable, but we will not draw first blood. Our goal remains the same: prevent the Apocalypse. Get me information on how to do that. Dismissed.” With that, he flew to Earth.

Dean stared at the phone in his hand. His alcohol induced sleep had carried him through lunch, and his hangover was pounding behind his eyes. He didn’t want to call, but it was Sam’s birthday and he wanted to hear a friendly voice. For once he wanted to talk to someone who’d known his brother.

Before he could rethink it, he dialed and pressed the phone to his ear. It rang long enough that he thought Bobby wasn’t going to answer, but finally he picked up and a gruff voiced said, “Hello?”

“Bobby.”

“Dean? Been a long time. You doing ok?”

Dean’s eyes burned. It was so good to hear his voice. “Yeah. Just thought I’d check in.”

He waited for Bobby to call him out for the obvious lie. Even he could hear how alcohol-rough his voice was, and they both knew what day it was. “Not much going on around here. Just the usual. Things quiet in your neck of the woods?”

He couldn’t decide if he was grateful Bobby hadn’t mentioned hunting explicitly or not, but the guilt of sitting at home while others went out and fought punched him in the gut. “Yeah. Ben’s just finishing up the school year, then Lisa wants to go on some sort of vacation. Not sure how I feel about that.”

“Sounds like you got a good thing there, boy. I’m happy for you.” He paused, and Dean braced himself for what was coming next. “Sam would be too.”

He closed his eyes and felt a tear break free, streaming down his face in a burning line. “I know.” He could hear the sincerity in Bobby’s voice, and he wasn’t sure how to tell him that sometimes he still wanted to commit suicide by monster. It was only his promise to Sam that kept him where he was. If he ever managed to spring Sam from the Cage, he wasn’t sure where they would end up. Probably wherever Sam wanted.

He and Bobby made awkward small talk for a while longer, before the hunter had to go. Dean hung up the phone and reached for the bottle of whiskey.

“Sam.” The deep voice cut the air, and Sam’s eyes flew open. A glowing ball of light with wings stood in front of him, though he would have sworn he’d heard Cas’s voice. After a second his eyes adjusted, and he could see Castiel’s vessel around his grace.

“Cas.” He beamed. “I’m glad you’re ok.”

Cas’s eyes were narrowed, though, studying Sam.

Sam squirmed under the angel’s stare. He stood, busying himself with the books on Bobby’s desk. “There’s, uh, something I wanted to talk to you about. Bobby thought you might be able to help.”

“Your grace,” Castiel said, too fast.

Sam’s head jerked around to face the angel. “What grace?” Cold fear washed over Sam as he thought about where he could have picked up grace. He clenched his jaw. “Him?”

Castiel looked confused for a moment, then understanding seemed to dawn and he replied, “No, Sam, Lucifer has not escaped the Cage, to my knowledge. You are carrying some of his grace, but you seem to also have some of Michael’s as well.”

“What? How?” Sam was trying to make sense of it, trying to wrap his brain around the idea that part of Lucifer was inside him still, and perhaps worse, so was part of Michael.

Cas shook his head minutely. “I don’t know. This sort of phenomenon is without precedent, but it seems unlikely to harm you.” He tilted his head, gaze suddenly distant as though he was listening to something out of Sam’s hearing. “I’m sorry, Sam. I have to go.”

“Wait!” Sam yelled. “What does this mean? Do I have angel powers now or something?”

Cas frowned. “I have no idea. It is certainly a possibility.” He turned away and closed his eyes. “I apologize for being unable to stay. I just received word that Raphael is attacking.” With that, he vanished.

Anxiety sat like a stone in Sam’s stomach. Nothing Cas said had been reassuring. He sighed and headed out into the junkyard. Better try to find out if he had any powers out where he couldn’t hurt anyone.

Sam found an isolated area of the junkyard that he and Dean had used for target practice in the past. There were still plenty of empty beer bottles and detritus that he could mess with. He just wasn’t sure where to start. When he’d been on demon blood, the power thrumming through him had felt so obvious. Reaching for it had been easy. This felt more slippery, like trying to grab onto his own soul somehow.

He reached, directing it to a small pile of garbage. A tin can rolled over, and nothing else happened. Frowning, he tried again, pulling harder at the electricity that had been building under his skin for days. Still nothing. His body tingled and thrummed, but he couldn’t figure out how to _use_ the power. He tried levitation, flying, and flinging more power at random piles of garbage, and came up with a lot of nothing to show for his effort.

Annoyed, he slouched on a tree stump and yelled his frustration. All around him glass shattered. He covered his head instinctively and cursed as he realized he had done that. This was exactly what he’d feared. Unpredictable powers that he couldn’t control.

That night in bed, he reasoned with himself. He didn’t want this power, couldn’t effectively use it. All he really needed to do was find a way to suppress it, or at least gain enough control that he didn’t start breaking things on accident.

He and Bobby dug through books for weeks following Cas’s revelation, but they couldn’t find anything about suppressing grace. For all the lore Bobby had on angels, they found that most of it was either inaccurate compared to their personal experiences or just plain unhelpful. Meanwhile, Sam kept having burps of power that always had an unexpected effect. One day he’d blown out all the windows in the kitchen, miraculously leaving the glasses and plates intact. Another day had seen him tossing a book in frustration and accidentally knocking over three chairs with his mind. The hiccups seemed to happen most when he was angry or frustrated, so he took a lesson from the Incredible Hulk and took up meditation.

More time passed before Sam finally felt like he was getting a handle on things. The research was going as badly as ever, and Cas hadn’t responded to any more of his prayers, but there hadn’t been an accident in two weeks. If he couldn’t lose the grace entirely, then dormancy was the next best option. They had no answers on how Sam got out of Hell, but other than Castiel’s hint that things might not be completely calm in Heaven nothing had popped out of the woodwork with demands of Sam. Summer was bleeding into fall, and Sam thought he was finally ready to see Dean.

Dean blinked awake and wondered for a minute where he was. Even after more than a year of waking up in the same bed, more often than not he woke up disoriented. It struck him as strange, when he bothered to think about it, because he had so rarely forgotten where they were when he’d been on the road with Sam.

Slowly, Dean levered himself upright. It was Saturday, so no work. Lisa’s side of the bed was cool and empty. She must be downstairs making breakfast already. Just another week or two until Ben started school again, so she had informed them both at dinner last night that Saturday was reserved for school shopping. Dean quietly groaned. He barely even had a concept of what school shopping was. This time last year he’d been existing in a drunken haze, and there had never been much shopping done when they were kids. Not for school, anyway. A notebook or two lifted from a grocery store or K-Mart, stolen motel pens and Sam had been good to go. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Christ. Was thinking about him ever going to get easier?

Downstairs, he grunted his way though his first cup of coffee and made small talk with Ben. “You excited about school?” Dean asked. Dumb question, and he knew it. Kids were never excited about school. Well, kids that weren’t Sam.

Ben shook his head, mouth full of eggs. “It’s ok, I guess, but I wish it could be summer forever. I mean, who’s ever going to need to know about the Revolutionary War anyhow?”

Dean smirked. “I hear you, kid. School was never really my thing either. But, uh, keep at it. Never know when it’ll come in handy. I can’t count the number—”

“Yeah, yeah. Sam was a genius, and history saved your asses.” Ben rolled his eyes.

“Ben, language,” Lisa chastised.

“Sorry. Saved your _butts_.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

Dean clenched his jaw. He felt Lisa watching him, trusting him to handle this without losing his cool, but he snapped, “Show some respect. Sam was a damn hero.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Ben wasn’t a bad kid, and he didn’t usually mouth off. Compared to Sam and Dean at his age, Ben was practically perfect. Still, it took all of Dean’s self-control to not lay into the kid. Feeling calmer, he said, “And yeah, he was, and it did. He always managed to pull some weird fact out of his giant head that happened to be relevant to the hunt we were on. Saved us more than once.”

Ben looked ready to continue sniping—Dean wondered what had crawled up his ass that morning—but he stopped short at a glance from his mom.

“Ben, go outside for a while. We’ll go shopping after lunch, and I expect you to stow that attitude by then.” Dean had to hand it to her, her voice was calm, but even he recognized that her tone brooked no argument.

After Ben disappeared out the back door, Dean slowly released the death grip he’d had on his coffee cup. He hadn’t even realized he was white-knuckling the thing.

“You know he doesn’t mean it,” she said, softly.

“I know.”

She smiled, quirking an eyebrow suggestively. “Come on, let’s go enjoy our morning off.” It didn’t take much convincing to get Dean to follow her back to bed.

Shopping went badly. Ben had not lost the snarky attitude, and Dean had rapidly lost patience. After the fifth time Ben made a snide comment about Sam, a screaming match was inevitable. Luckily, they had made it back to the house before they let words fly. After Ben stormed off to his room, Dean looked helplessly at Lisa. “What the hell is going on with him today?”

She shook her head. “Give him a few minutes, then go talk to him. And when you do, try to go easy on him. I think he’s just feeling overshadowed by Sam lately.”

Dean shot her a puzzled look, but she wouldn’t elaborate.

Half an hour later, he knocked on Ben’s door.

“Go away.”

Dean winced. “Can’t do that. Can I come in? Less awkward than talking through the door.”

No answer. Dean was about to settle himself in the hallway when the door opened a crack. He took it for the invitation it was and went in. Sitting beside Ben on the bed, he began. “I’m sorry.”

Ben looked up, startled. “Why are _you_ sorry?”

Dean took a deep breath. “Your mom may have pointed out that I’ve been talking about Sam a lot lately, today in particular.”

Ben shrugged one shoulder. “So? You’re allowed to talk about him.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Ok. But how does it make you feel when I talk about him?” He tried not to stare at Ben while he waited for an answer.

Ben ducked his head and started picking at his nails. “Dunno. Fine, I guess.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, that’s convincing. Try again.”

Ben squirmed. “Like I’m never gonna be as good as him. Like… you wish he was here instead of me. Like I’m just some crappy replacement.”

“Ouch. Ok, first, you aren’t replacing Sam, so you can’t be a crappy replacement. Second, you are awesome. He was awesome too, and yeah, sometimes you remind me of him so much it hurts. But it’s not a competition. I like you because you’re Ben, not because you’re Sammy 2.0. And third,” Dean took a deep breath, “I do wish he was here. Every single day. Sometimes talking about him makes me feel like he is, a little. And sometimes I talk about him because I’m scared I’ll forget him if I don’t. But, Ben, this part is important, ok? I don’t wish he was here _instead_ of you and your mom.”

Before Ben could answer, Lisa threw open the door, panting from running up the stairs at breakneck speed. “Dean, we have a problem,” she said, eyes wide with fear. She explained, and Dean felt himself slide effortlessly back into hunter mode.

He kept supplies stashed around the house in case of emergencies, a precaution which made him glad now as he gathered a little bit of everything—salt rounds, holy water, silver. Sufficiently armed and his family hiding out upstairs, Dean padded silently to the front door. He glanced through one of the front windows and gulped. Lisa hadn’t been kidding. Standing at the door was a perfect likeness of his brother.

He braced himself, cocked his shotgun, and opened the door, leveling the gun at his brother’s doppelganger.

Sam was regretting his decision to come alone. He was nervous, and at the very least Bobby would have been someone to talk to. He also suspected there was a better than even chance Dean was going to shoot him on sight. Still, he stood on Lisa’s front porch, trying not to think about all the what ifs. What if Dean didn’t want to see him? What if he didn’t believe it was really Sam? Worse, what if he did believe Sam, and then found out about the grace? Sam took a calming breath. No. It was going to be fine. He hadn’t just ruined Dean’s life by ringing the doorbell.

He sensed Dean on the other side of the door a few minutes later, probably armed to the teeth. Maybe—hopefully—he had super healing abilities now, too.

The door opened, and Dean was aiming a shotgun at him. “Whatever the hell you are, you should know better than to come here wearing that face.”

Sam swallowed hard and slowly raised his hands. “Test me. Or call Bobby. He can vouch for me. It’s really me, Dean. I got out. I’m back.”

Dean’s jaw worked, and for a minute Sam was afraid he was going to get shot anyway. Finally, he ran Sam through the tests, ending with a brief phone call to Bobby for good measure. The old hunter cursed them both out for being idiots but confirmed that Sam was back and no, they didn’t know how.

Dean hung up the phone and stared at it for a second, trying to compose himself. He slowly lowered the shotgun to the floor, thumbing on the safety by instinct before dropping the gun completely. “Sammy,” he breathed. Taking a step forward, he pulled Sam into a tight hug. Sam closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of his big brother as he held on with everything he had. A breath, two, then Dean released him.

“How the hell are you here?” Dean asked.

Sam grinned. “No idea.” Sam explained briefly about waking up and finding out Bobby was alive and his futile search for answers, skirting the issue of his additional baggage.

They were moving toward the living room when Dean stopped, throwing an arm in front of Sam. “Wait, how long have you been back?”

Sam grimaced. “Not long. Couple months, maybe.”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “A couple months? You’ve been back for months and you couldn’t even call?”

“I wanted to come. I did, Dean, right away, but I—I needed time.”

“Time. Right. Because how could I possibly understand what it’s like to mysteriously get out of Hell.” He rolled his eyes and turned away from Sam.

Sam closed his eyes. This was not how their reunion was supposed to go. “I couldn’t bring that here, Dean. I didn’t want to ruin what you’ve built with them.” He prayed this would be enough to convince Dean he hadn’t been avoiding him, not because he wanted to.

Dean chuckled darkly. “Yeah, well, I wanted you to be not dead.”

Sam shrugged and tried another smile. “I’m here now.”

Dean half-turned to look at him. “And you’re, what? Topside a couple weeks and you’re good now?”

It was Sam’s turn to avoid eye contact. He studied the pictures on the mantle—mostly of Lisa and Ben, but a smiling Dean featured in several. Once more he wondered if he was doing the right thing by coming here. “I don’t know that I’d say good, exactly. I’m dealing.”

Dean hesitated. “You want to talk about it?”

“I really don’t,” Sam said, hoping Dean would just let it go for now.

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment, and then, as if it had finally sunk in that Sam was there, and alive, and more or less ok, his face lit up like Christmas. “Holy shit, Sam. I can’t believe you’re really here. Let me show you around.”

Sam ended up spending the night in Lisa’s guest room. After Dean had confirmed for her that it was really him and not a monster, she’d insisted. Couldn’t make the guy who’d saved the world go stay at a motel after all. Then, he just never left. After a week, Dean broached the idea of hunting, but Sam shot it down. He didn’t miss the look of relief on Dean’s face when Sam said he wanted them both to retire. After that Dean helped him find work, pulled a few strings and called in some favors and got Sam working construction with him. Working together again felt good, even if it was a very different kind of work.

Everything was good, really good. The kind of good that the Winchesters had learned not to trust because it always ended bloody.


	3. Chapter 3

It started small. One night, maybe a month after Sam had moved in, nightmares of Sam dying in new and horrible ways woke Dean for the fifth time in a row. He lay in bed panting, surprised Lisa was still sound asleep beside him. The adrenaline from his latest round of nightmares was going to keep him up for at least an hour, he could tell. Glancing at his alarm clock, he stifled a groan. 2 AM, and he and Sam had work in the morning.

When this had happened last week, he’d found Sam up late reading and the two of them had killed the hours catching up and telling old stories. He told himself that wasn’t going to happen again, but he knew he’d feel better if he had eyes on Sam. Sliding out of bed, he padded down the hall, surprised to find Sam’s light on again. He wondered just how much sleep Sam had been getting lately. He didn’t seem sleep deprived, but Dean knew better than anyone how well Sam could function on no sleep. He tapped on Sam’s door, quiet enough that he wouldn’t wake his brother if he’d fallen asleep with the light on.

No surprise though when he heard Sam quietly call, “Come in.”

Sam had occupied this room for a month, and it still didn’t look like he’d moved in at all. The bedspread was a floral pattern Lisa had obviously picked out, the walls were still painted lavender, various boxes of their junk were still piled in the corner. The only indication that Sam spent time in here was the pile of books on his nightstand. He wasn’t sure if Sam was waiting to be kicked out or if he just didn’t know how to make a room his own, but Dean resolved to help him settle in more that weekend.

“Can’t sleep?” Dean asked, closing the door behind him.

Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Nightmares again?”

Dean shook his head and scoffed. “I always check the house at two in the morning. Saw your light on.”

Sam huffed a laugh and nodded. “Yeah, well, sleep isn’t really my friend lately. Pass the time with me?”

Dean crawled onto the bed, which was not nearly big enough for two Winchesters, and settled against the headboard, brushing shoulders with Sam. The contact was reassuring in a way Dean couldn’t explain, and though they talked for over an hour, he felt sleep beginning to tug at him almost immediately. They woke in a tangle of limbs the next morning as light spilled through the curtains and the door to Sam’s room clicked quietly shut.

Sam worried, but Lisa never said anything, not even when it kept happening, first once a week, then twice, until nearly every night found Dean crawling into Sam’s bed at some point. They never did anything besides talk and sleep, but here, in this house, it felt like a breach in protocol. A line they shouldn’t be crossing, and nowhere close to the line Sam wished they could cross.

Sam didn’t try to stop it, though. Wrapping himself around Dean helped ground the hum of power under his skin and let him sleep more than two hours a night. Breach or not, Sam couldn’t, wouldn’t, turn Dean away.

One day, as spring was just starting to melt the piles of Indiana winter snow, Sam blinked back to consciousness and found Dean’s morning wood pressed firmly against his ass. This wasn’t unusual in and of itself, especially lately, but judging from the soft moans and minute thrusts, Dean was in the middle of a very interesting dream.

The little brother in Sam told him to wake Dean up, thus ruining the climax, as it were. Logic and self-preservation told him to sneak out of bed and leave Dean to finish his dream alone. That was what he should do. He knew it, tried to talk himself into making that first move, but there was a third part—a leaking, achingly hard part—that wanted to pretend he was still asleep and enjoy wherever this might go. He gritted his teeth. That would be wrong. It would be taking advantage of Dean, for starters, and beyond that would be crossing a line he wasn’t prepared to cross in Lisa’s house. Not when he knew for a fact Dean and Lisa were still involved. They were frequently very enthusiastic about their involvement after they went to bed, even if Dean did end up laying next to Sam, asleep, a few hours later.

Even as Sam palmed himself and stifled a moan, he knew he was going to be sneaking out of bed and into the shower to take care of things in private. He carefully shifted toward the edge of the bed, freezing when Dean’s arms tugged him back.

Dean’s sleep-rough voice grumbled, “Five more minutes.”

Sam held his breath. After a minute, Dean’s breathing deepened, and his hips resumed their small movements. Sam silently groaned. Only Dean would be able to resume a sex dream after falling back asleep. Sam’s traitorous cock was fully interested in staying in bed, and it was rewarded when one of Dean’s hands slid down Sam’s belly to within grazing distance. Not close enough, damn it.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. Lisa was right down the hall. Want or not, he was only here— _they_ were only here—because she allowed it. Never mind how Sam had sworn up and down that he wasn’t going to destroy Dean’s life by coming here.

Sam whimpered when a particularly enthusiastic hip thrust shifted Dean’s hand enough to brush Sam’s hard dick. Dean didn’t seem to react, though, so Sam deemed him still asleep and took the opportunity to slip out of bed. This time, Dean let him go.

He breathed a sigh of relief and gathered his things for a shower. He briefly considered going for a run, but he didn’t relish the thought of trying to will his erection into submission lest the neighbors see. He glared at it for a moment, feeling like a horny teenager, then stealthily made his way to the shower, managing to avoid anyone else in the house.

Under the hot spray he palmed himself while mentally shuffling through his spank bank. Sure, he could probably get himself off in five minutes or less just reliving what had happened in his bed that morning, but he was looking for a distraction. Something to get him thinking about Dean and his penis less. Maybe Castiel instead. Sam had harbored a harmless crush on the angel practically from the moment they met, and it was easy to call up fantasies of that deep voice calling him a good boy. He stroked himself with one hand, lightly fingered himself with the other. He imagined Castiel pressing into him from behind, superhumanly strong arms holding Sam up as he thrust into him. Good. Yes. He was close, stroking himself faster, chasing the release. Dean on his knees, Cas feeding Sam’s cock to him. Oh. As he imagined fucking his brother’s face to the rhythm of Castiel’s thrusts, Sam came so hard he whited out for a moment and had to reach out a hand to catch himself on the shower wall.

So much for a distraction from Dean.

After Sam crawled out of bed, Dean cracked open his eyes. That had been his imagination, right? He hadn’t actually felt Sam’s hard-on a minute ago, had he? He pressed both palms to his eyes until stars exploded behind his eyelids. No, that hadn’t been part of the dream in which he was pounding his brother into the bed. This was getting out of hand.

Lisa was already in the kitchen, and he could tell this was not going to be a good day. She looked determined, and he’d learned ages ago that a determined Lisa got her way. She didn’t even give him a chance to warm up his brain with coffee before she started talking. “We need to talk about Sam.”

Dean groaned. In truth, he’d been waiting for her to kick them out. It was weird, he knew it was weird. And great sex or not, Lisa’s patience with him could only be expected to extend so far. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to rock the boat. Sam said he was dealing, but Dean knew he was barely sleeping. Knew the kid hardly slept more than an hour or two unless Dean was in bed too. Dean wasn’t sure if it was nightmares or memories or what, but they both slept better the way they did things now. Dean briefly wondered if that was part of why she had tolerated it for as long as she did. He hadn’t woken the house up shouting in weeks.

She set her jaw and continued, undeterred by his lack of verbal response. “I know I’m the one that offered him a place to stay, but it’s time he got his own place, don’t you think?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. She wanted just Sam gone? “What, you think he isn’t pulling his weight or something?”

She sighed. “Of course not. He’s been great. And if you want me to list the ways I will, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point? He’s a great guy, just got done being tortured in Hell for saving the world and is still somehow managing to be a functional member of society, but, yeah, he definitely needs to hit the road.” Dean let a touch of his anger filter into his voice, edging his sarcasm harder.

She turned away from Dean. “You know why, Dean. I didn’t want to bring it up, but this thing between you is—It’s not what siblings do. And I’m not judging. The two of you saved the world. I’d be an idiot to be anything other than grateful. But I don’t know that there’s space for me and Ben in this tangled up mess with you and Sam. I thought if—never mind. The point is that I know it’s not like that between you.”

Dean struggled not to roll his eyes. If she only knew.

But she wasn’t done.

“Except for how it is. Maybe not yet, but it will be. I’m not blind. I see how you watch each other. So, yeah, Sam has to go. If you want to stay—”

The sound of the front door closing hard—not quite slamming shut—shut them both up. Dean winced. Son of a bitch.

Sam sat down hard on the front porch. He’d known this wasn’t going to last. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much when it ended. It was ok, though. He’d leave after work, find a motel for the night, then get a place of his own. And he wasn’t going to drag Dean along with him. Dean would put up a fight (Sam refused to think about how one-sided the conversation he’d just heard was), but it was better this way. Dean got to keep his family, and Sam could stay close.

He stood, dusting off his pants as he prepared himself to go inside and grab some food before he and Dean left for work. Ben opened the door, stepping outside and barely glancing at Sam before starting across the lawn, heading for his bus stop. Sam checked the time—later than he’d thought.

With barely a flutter of wings preceding his arrival, an angel appeared on the lawn between Sam and Ben. Sam could hardly see the vessel past the sight of the grace. It was blinding and with a sickening roll of his stomach he realized it reminded him of Michael and Lucifer. It had to be the last archangel, Raphael.

He saw Ben pause and turn back when the angel appeared. Not good. He tried to subtly catch the kid’s eye and warn him to run, hopefully around back to get Dean, but Sam would be happy with anything involving “away.” Sam tried to think. He had no weapons, hadn’t carried one in weeks. All their sharp-edged tools were locked away in the garage, just like everything in Baby’s trunk, so no way to slice his hand and banish Raphael. He could call Cas, but his memories of Lucifer vaporizing the angel stopped him. There was no plan. Just stall until Dean realized there was something going on and banished the archangel himself.

Raphael had a darkly pleased look on his face that made Sam’s blood run cold. He flicked his wrist, and Ben flew across the yard to slam into the siding where he hovered two feet off the ground. Sam flinched and glanced over at him. No bleeding. He looked scared but not painful. Small mercies.

Sam steeled himself. “What do you want?”

Raphael sneered. “I want to hurt Castiel, and I’ve heard you’re his pet. Do I need to spell out the rest, or have my brothers taught you how we think?”

Sam blanched. No, Raphael did not need to elaborate. He was here to hurt Sam, badly, judging from the look on his face. “I’m not that important. Your plan isn’t going to work.”

Raphael laughed deeply, and Sam could see his wings flutter in amusement. “Oh, you think so? Perhaps I just wanted to hurt you. Hurting Castiel is a bonus.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you ruined everything, you vile, useless earthworm. You took my Father’s script, and you destroyed it. You think you know better than God? Than the angels? You are pathetic, and I will personally crush you for your insolence. Then, I will release my brothers, and we can have a proper Apocalypse.”

Sam felt cold fear wash down his spine. “I won’t say yes again.”

Raphael tilted his head with a look that could almost be mistaken for pity. “Don’t worry, vessel. You won’t have to.”

That sounded ominous. Sam tried to respond, do anything to keep distracting and stalling, but he abruptly found that he couldn’t. His eyes widened, and then Raphael smirked. Sam felt the snap crackle of his grace lighting up under his skin and willed it away. It might be useful if he knew what he was doing, but as it stood, he was just as likely to hurt Ben or an innocent passerby as do anything useful.

“Oh sorry, did I not mention? I’m tired of listening to your attempts to understand things obviously beyond your comprehension. It’s time I finished what I came here for.” With that, he idly waved his hand and threw Sam across the yard.

Sam landed hard on his left shoulder and felt something give way before pain flared bright from the joint. Dislocated, probably. He groaned and tried to push himself to his feet, only to be slammed back into the ground by an invisible heavy weight pressing into his back. He struggled to turn his head enough to keep breathing and winced as he felt his ribs creaking under the strain. The angel was toying with him. He cracked open his eyes just in time to see Raphael fly across the yard to deliver a hard kick to Sam’s abdomen. He followed it with two more and a kick to Sam’s head that left him stunned. Something had broken internally, he knew, and he gagged as blood started to well up in the back of his throat. The kicks had flipped him onto his back, and now he was in danger of choking on his own bodily fluids. Maybe. Maybe if he could roll over again. Could he use the blood to make a banishing sigil? No. Grass. He was laying on the grass. He needed a flatter surface.

Idly, he wondered if any of the neighbors had called the police. He hoped not. He didn’t especially want to see vaporized police officers this morning. Sam was aware enough to realize just how fuzzy his brain was. _Concussion_ , he thought. He barely felt the next several blows Raphael rained down on him. At this rate, he wasn’t going to last until Dean made it out here to rescue him. As if on cue, he felt a surge from his grace. Still dangerous. Still likely to end up hurting Ben or someone else, but he was out of time. If he knew that Raphael would leave once Sam was dead, then he would just wait and take the damage, but he didn’t. Rather, he suspected that he was just the first person Raphael was going to hurt here. He didn’t matter that much to Cas. Dean did. Hurting Lisa or Ben would hurt Dean. Hurting Dean would hurt Cas. And, of course, Dean had failed his duties as vessel too. No, Raphael wasn’t going to leave once he was done with Sam. Sam needed to end this, if he could.

He reached for his grace, dormant for months now, and pulled. He felt the rush of power, already starting to heal his wounds. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming as his shoulder popped back into joint. Healing was good, but not what he needed at this moment. It could wait until after the psychotic archangel was gone. He tried again, reaching for his power and then pushing, trying to focus it at Raphael, who was gearing up for another round of blows. This time it worked, and Raphael went flying. He landed near Ben.

As the angel laughed—never a good sign—and reached up, twisting his arm and clenching his hand into a fist. Ben screamed, and Sam suddenly felt the weird, omnipresent itch between his shoulder blades explode outward. In a blink, he was across the yard and reaching for Raphael. Tossing the angel away, again, he stood in front of Ben protectively. Something was coming out of his back, and he was trying not to think about it too much, but a glow caught the corner of his eye. Wings. Honest to God wings, made from the same glowing grace Raphael’s were made of.

Slowly, he lowered them, keeping an eye on the angel as he checked to see how badly Ben had been hurt. Honestly, the kid looked ok. He was standing under his own power now, watching Sam with something akin to awe. Sam tried to smile reassuringly, keenly aware that he probably looked like a wreck with blood dripping down his face.

Dean heard a commotion and stumbled outside just in time to see a winged dick start pummeling his brother. He ducked back inside for a weapon—preferably an angel blade, if he could remember where the heck he’d stashed his. No, that would take too long, it was in the Impala. He grabbed the knife he kept stashed in the living room, slashing his hand as he went back outside. Sam wasn’t on the ground anymore, he was by Ben, kneeling on the ground. Dean was alarmed by the glowing wings he could clearly see erupting from Sam’s back, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as he hastily drew an angel banishing sigil on the wall beside him. He could see angel dude when he stood up and an angel blade dropped into his hand. Dean worked faster, pumping his hand to keep the blood flowing. The angel teleported himself directly behind Sam and drew his arm back to stab his blade into Sam’s back as Dean slammed his bloody palm onto the finished sigil. Immediately, bright light flooded the area and he had to raise his arm to block the glare from burning his eyes.

He panted, trying to catch his breath until he realized he could hear Sam yelling. He blinked, trying to focus on what was going on in the yard. As his vision cleared, the only thing he was able to think about was Sam laying on the ground, curled into a ball and screaming in pain. _Shit shit shit_. Dean rushed over, trying to assess Sam’s injuries. His face was covered in blood, especially around his mouth which was concerning. Dean ran his hands down Sam’s back, looking for a stab wound. He’d thought he’d hit the sigil in time, but he couldn’t be sure. He fought down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He was not going to lose Sam again. Not now, not ever. Less than a minute later, Dean was still trying to figure out how badly Sam was hurt, but Sam had gone quiet and limp. As soon as he realized, Dean frantically felt for a pulse, heaving a relieved sigh when he found one, strong and steady. He held on, tipping his forehead against Sam’s. They were going to be ok. He barely registered Ben running back to the house or Lisa standing in the doorway, silently watching the scene.


	4. Chapter 4

“No, Dean, I know what I saw. I’m done. He has to go, now,” Lisa said, throwing her arms up in frustration. Sam stood off to the side, offering no defense for himself. “He’s not human! And that thing—” She took a steadying breath, crossing her arms in front of her. “Ben was in danger because he was here.”

Ben piped up. “But he saved me! He protected me, Mom!”

Finally, Sam spoke. “Your mom is right. I’m the reason you were in danger in the first place.” To Lisa he said, “It’s ok. I’ll go. Just let me go grab my bag.”

She nodded tightly, chewing her lip, and Sam hurried up the stairs. Dean couldn’t believe it. It felt like his world was falling down around his ears. The argument in the kitchen had been one thing, and he’d understood where she was coming from. This. This was something else entirely. He still understood, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Sam _wasn’t_ human. He wasn’t human, and he’d hidden it from all of them. It was the demon blood all over again. They were going to have to have words about this one.

That didn’t mean he was prepared to just let Sam waltz out of his life.

“You don’t have to go, Dean. This isn’t about you,” she said, quietly, already knowing what his answer was going to be.

“He’s my brother, Lisa. I can’t—I just got him back. And now something is gunning for him. I’m not saying you’re wrong. We’re putting you in danger, and we’ll leave, but I can’t let him deal with this on his own.”

“Where will you go?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe Bobby’s. Maybe not. We’ll figure it out.”

They were on the road less than an hour later. Sam looked pissed that Dean had insisted on leaving too, but Dean couldn’t figure out who he was pissed at. With the rumble of the Impala soothing the worry in his bones and the roar of the road under her tires, Dean felt happier than he had in a long time. He could argue with Sam later. For now, he just wanted to enjoy being back on the road with his brother.

Dean drove vaguely north, vaguely west. They would end up near Sioux Falls eventually, and then they would stop and see how Bobby was. He didn’t broach the subject of what had happened that morning until after they’d stopped for gas and food and were back on the road, Indiana in their rearview mirror.

“So, Sam, you want to tell me what the hell happened?”

Sam didn’t look at him, just kept staring at the road. “Got my ass kicked by an archangel.”

Dean glanced at Sam. He hadn’t known that was another fucking archangel. Briefly biting his tongue before he spoke to try to keep this civil for as long as possible, he felt the anger bubbling up now that they were safe. Safe enough, at least. “Care to elaborate on that? For example, how are you even breathing right now? Or let’s try: when did you get wings? Speaking of your wings, what happened to them?”

Sam sighed tiredly. “I brought grace with me out of the Cage. Not—not either of them. Just bits and pieces. Cas said it was basically harmless. The wings are new.”

Dean’s jaw worked. “You didn’t think this was information to share with the class?”

“And do what? Drag you out of retirement earlier? I wasn’t using it. I wasn’t—” He looked down at his hands and swallowed hard. “I thought it wouldn’t matter as long as I didn’t use it.” Dean looked over at his brother. Sam’s eyes were wet, and he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“You still should have told me.”

This time Sam did look at him. His voice was edged with anger when he said, “That’s really easy for you to say. You aren’t the freak in this family.”

Later, when they stopped for the night, Dean sent Sam out for food. They’d been sniping at each other all afternoon, and Dean knew they needed a break before they came to blows. Besides, he needed to have a word with Cas. He perched himself on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, and prayed.

“Castiel, you feathered asshole, I’ve got questions for you. For starters, why the hell is a winged arch-dick coming after Sam? Second, how did Sam—”

“Where is Sam?”

Dean opened his eyes and found Castiel standing far too close. The angel looked haggard, but his eyes were bright with concern. “Where have you been?” he asked instead of answering the question.

“I am fighting a civil war. One which Raphael apparently has decided to make personal. Now. Where is Sam?” Power radiated off the angel. It was impossible to mistake the overt hostility in his voice.

“Grabbing food. What the hell are you talking about?” He managed to resist stepping back from the angel.

“You said Sam was threatened. He shouldn’t be out alone. Raphael may be able to find him through his grace, despite the warding imprinted on his ribs.” Castiel shifted his weight, seeming uncharacteristically nervous.

“His grace. Right. About that. How did he end up running around with freaking grace? Or better yet, can you get rid of it?”

Castiel whirled, staring at Dean until the hunter awkwardly broke eye contact. “Why would I want to do that?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Cas, maybe because Raphael definitely can use it to track him. Has, actually. He wasn’t threatened; he was attacked. So being able to keep a low profile would be nice. That a good enough reason for you?”

Castiel’s eyes widened and his voice dropped even lower. “He was attacked? What happened?”

Geez. Dean could tell he wasn’t going to get anything useful out of the angel until he filled him in. He did, just giving the broadest strokes, then asked again, “Can you get rid of the grace?”

Castiel shook him head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Dean frowned. “Why the hell not?”

Castiel spoke slowly, as if trying to explain a difficult concept to a child. “His grace is deeply entwined with his soul, likely more so now that he has used it and manifested wings. Removing it could cause irreparable damage.” He gazed steadily at Dean. “It may kill him.”

Dean blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “How did he even end up like this?”

“I don’t know. Given the way it is threaded through his soul, I would say that he did it to himself while he was in the Cage. Has he discussed his time in Hell with you?”

Dean shook his head. “No. I haven’t pushed. He seems to be dealing ok.”

“You know how long he was there. With the damage he sustained, to be functional now—” Castiel pursed his lips. “The grace is likely dulling the memories, protecting his mind from the damage his soul sustained. I believe his soul gathered scraps of Michael’s and Lucifer’s grace as a means of defending itself, but I can’t be sure without a closer look.”

Dean tried to understand. “What, like—like some civilian that finds themselves in a warzone and picks up some dead soldier’s gun they don’t know how to use because it’s better than nothing?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “That seems excessively dangerous.”

Dean rolled his eyes and made a “that’s my point” gesture.

After a moment, the analogy seemed to click for Cas. “Yes. That is…an accurate assessment of what I believe has happened.”

“My soul is being held together by grace?” Sam asked from the doorway.

Cas nodded, apparently unperturbed by Sam’s stealth entrance. His freaky angel hearing had probably heard the giant come in.

“So there’s nothing we can do about it,” Sam said definitively. “I just have to learn to deal with this.”

“Sam,” Dean said, then stopped. Dean’s heart ached for his little brother. He still had nightmares of listening to Sam detox from the demon blood. Still remembered the hopelessness on Sam’s face when he talked about what Azazel had done to him as a baby. He hated that Sam had hidden this from him too, but the way Sam had called himself a freak earlier had raised his big brother protective instincts.

Still. Maybe this could be useful. Cas’s powers had helped them out of tight situations plenty. Dean couldn’t complain about some healing mojo instead of stitches or hospitals. He may not like that Sam was one step further from human—ok, he hated that part—but it was a damn helpful set of tools if Sam could use them. Dean looked from Sam to Cas. “In that case, I guess Sam could use some flying lessons. What do you say?”

Sam had protested, but with Dean on board it was hard to argue against Sam learning how to use his new abilities now that Raphael had painted a target on the younger Winchester. Castiel, for his part, had readily agreed to teach Sam what he could, but he’d been called away that first night before anything could be taught.

“Stop trying to force your grace to function, Sam,” Cas said with exasperation in his voice.

“I am. Or I’m trying to. This isn’t exactly easy for me.” They’d been working for an hour in Bobby’s junkyard, and so far, Sam had managed little more than manifesting his wings once.

Castiel frowned. Sam’s grace glowed brightly, but it seemed to shrink every time Sam attempted to use it. “It would be easier if you were not fighting with yourself.”

Sam threw his hands up. “Sorry. I don’t have much Zen today.” His unspoken desire to not do this at all was clear even to Castiel.

Castiel tried not to be offended. He knew both Winchesters valued their humanity, and this was a difficult adjustment for Sam. His affection for the younger brother aside, he had been pleased when they asked him for help with Sam’s powers. It just seemed that he was not a very good teacher. How does one teach what has been instinct since the day they were born?

He opened his mouth to speak when he received a summons from Rachel. Raphael had attacked another flight—the third attack this week to interrupt a lesson with Sam. He growled in frustration and looked to Sam. “Rachel is calling. I’m sorry. Keep practicing, and I will be back when I am able. Possibly not for a day or two.”

Sam understood Cas was fighting a war. He did. He tried to practice on his own, moving things, stalking Dean to be there to heal any minor injury his brother managed to accrue while working on a car in Bobby’s garage. His results were sporadic at best. Healing his own injuries happened without thought, but he had yet to successfully heal anyone else. He even tried flying once or twice—terrifying, when he wasn’t doing it on instinct. He’d ended up across town the first time, and halfway across the state the second. After that, he had decided he wasn’t practicing flight again until Cas had a chance to give him a real lesson, lest he end up in Norway with no way back into the US.

Besides, his heart wasn’t really in it. Even though Dean was on board, apparently, a little voice in Sam’s head kept whispering _Freak! Freak! Freak!_ anytime he reached for his power. Cas showed up when he could, but their lessons were erratic as Raphael stepped up his aggression. None of them were sure what it meant, but Cas had received word that Raphael may be making moves to reopen the Cage. No details on how that was going to happen, but they all knew enough to be wary. Sam had opened the Cage from this side not once but twice, and he was the only one to also somehow escape from the inside. If Raphael was looking for a way in, Sam was a target.

Sam knew Dean feared another attack on them, and that plus the added stress of trying to master powers he’d rather ignore was starting to wear on him.

“I’m just frustrated, man,” Sam said, throwing a shirt into his duffel. Sitting still at Bobby’s for weeks was making everything worse, no matter how much they loved their foster father. Dean had finally agreed to hit the road that morning. No hunts, just driving. It would feel good for both of them to be on the road again.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you understood. You afraid he’s just not that into you, Sammy?” He chuckled at his own joke, stifling the laugh a little when he caught Sam’s glare. “Come on, untwist your panties. He’s doing his best.”

Sam swallowed hard. He was not about to tell Dean about his crush on the angel. “I just feel like I’m not making any progress, you know? I know he’s trying, but—”

“You think Raphael’s going to come after you again?”

Sam shrugged and continued packing his bag for a moment. “You don’t?”

Dean hummed noncommittally.

Sam didn’t say anything. He was worried about Cas, with Raphael’s increasingly frequent attacks. And yes, he was worried Raphael was going to attack them before he had a handle on his abilities. Right now, his powers were unreliable at best, and Dean, while an incredible hunter, was just a man. An archangel on a mission would squash them both like bugs. Sure, they’d survived encounters with archangels before, but never an archangel that wanted them dead.

Dean cautiously watched his brother packing. Sam was struggling, and Dean was keenly aware that Sam hadn’t denied his implied feelings for Cas. Whatever Dean had thought might be happening between them had stalled out after Raphael’s attack, and Dean could be the bigger man. Regardless of his own feelings toward Sam, he knew the role he had to play here: tease Sam mercilessly like the big brother he was, then help his little brother out by being the best damn wingman he could be.

He could bide his time, though, and did. Two days later as Sam was brushing his teeth before bed, Dean decided it was the perfect moment for a little ribbing. “So, is it Cas’s ass that does it for you?”

He was rewarded by Sam choking on his toothpaste and turning bright red. Dean grinned, pleased with himself. When Sam could finally breathe again, he managed a strangled, “What?”

Dean plastered an innocent look on his face. “I mean, I suppose it makes sense. He’s an angel. You’re kind of like an angel now. Hey, can you see his wings?”

He turned to face Sam and found him staring at Dean openmouthed. “Is that why?” Sam asked.

“Why what?” Dean said, shooting his brother a genuine look of confusion.

Sam shuffled and stared down at his feet, suddenly nervous. “Why we—Why you’ve been sleeping alone.”

Panic threatened to flood Dean’s senses. They didn’t talk about this. Regardless of what they might or might not have been willing to do, this was not a topic of conversation Dean had ever been prepared to discuss.

Sam sighed. “I—Sorry. I know. I figured with the grace—” He paused, trying to compose himself. “I figured you didn’t want that, anymore. Whatever it was we were doing at Lisa’s. But if—if it’s because you think Cas—” Sam closed his eyes, missing Dean’s very loud thoughts telling him to shut the fuck up already, and barreled on. “I do. I want—what we were. But if you—”

“Dude, stop,” Dean choked out. “I can practically feel myself growing a vagina.”

There was Sam’s trusty bitch face. Dean beamed at him. “So, not Cas?”

Sam blushed. Dean raised his eyebrows. Finally, almost so quietly Dean missed it, he managed to say, “Not just Cas.”

Ah. Now that was interesting. Dean thought for half a second before deciding he’d be game for pretty much anything Sam could throw his way. Break one major taboo and the rest just didn’t seem so bad in comparison. “Kinky.” The word was out of his mouth before he even really thought about saying it, but he wasn’t going to backtrack. It was kinky, and if Sam interpreted it as Dean’s interest, then he wasn’t about to dissuade him. Dean grinned suggestively, and Sam blushed harder. He chuckled. Flustering Sam was going to be his new favorite pastime.

After that, they started enjoying their time just being brothers on the road so much that they were completely blindsided when one day Raphael appeared behind Sam, angel blade held to his throat. Dean had no time to react before the archangel had gripped a chunk of Sam’s hair, tilted his head back, and used the blade to slice a wound in Sam’s neck. The wound glowed blue, and Dean was horrified when he realized Sam’s grace was leaking out, right into a small vial Raphael held to the wound. The angel shoved Sam’s limp body forward with a wicked grin. Dean was already screaming for Cas as the arch-dick disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

Dean caught Sam, clamping a hand across the wound in his neck. It now bled only red and looked shallow enough that it might not be fatal. He levered Sam to the ground and realized that though Sam hadn’t really lost much blood yet, the attack had left him dull and glassy-eyed. Dean remembered Cas’s warnings about irreversible damage and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that Cas was wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam had been comatose in Bobby’s panic room for just over 24 hours, and Dean thought he was going to go crazy if he didn’t do something. He’d used up the last of their African Dream Root in a failed attempt to enter Sam’s dreams, but Cas had informed him that it hadn’t worked because Sam wasn’t truly asleep. Without the grace holding him together, his soul, and therefore his mind, had likely fractured under the strain of his memories from Hell. Dean didn’t like sitting still, and he hated being told he couldn’t help Sam. Cas had been in and out all day, wanting to keep vigil with Dean, but constantly needing to talk to angels or deal with business in Heaven as they scrambled to figure out what Raphael planned to do with Sam’s grace. The obvious answer—open the Cage—wasn’t terribly helpful since no one seemed to know _how_ he planned to do that.

Dean thought it might not matter. Since every other opening to the Cage had been on Earth, he reasoned this one would be too. All they needed to do was show up wherever he was and take Sam’s grace back. In the meantime, Dean wanted to try something to get Sam vertical again. If Cas could get him into Sam’s head, then maybe he could help Sam piece enough of himself together to wake up. Cas thought returning the grace to Sam would be enough to “fix” him and having him present when they took it back from Raphael would make the whole process a lot faster. There was also the small matter of defeating Raphael once and for all, which Cas was apparently convinced Sam could do. Dean wasn’t sure what gave him that idea, but if it was true, then it begged the question: had Raphael targeted Sam because he needed the grace to open the Cage or just because he saw Sam as a threat?

Either way, they needed to get Sam walking.

Dean posed the question to Cas the next time he appeared. “Can you get me in there?” he asked. Cas said nothing, just narrowed his eyes at Dean, so Dean explained his reasoning.

Cas hesitated. “I can. You may not like what you see. His experience in Hell was likely very different from yours.”

Dean stared right back at the angel. “I don’t care.”

With no time to delay beyond getting Dean settled on a cot of his own, they began immediately. Cas pressed his palm against Dean’s forehead, then reached for Sam’s shoulder. The panic room melted away, and Dean found himself in…a porn video?

He looked around. They appeared to be in a motel room, familiar in the way they all were, but it didn’t ring any specific bells for him. On the bed were three large, naked men. After he got over the initial shock of being confronted with three guys having some very athletic sex, he realized it was him, Sam, and Cas. Sam was being spit-roasted, with Dean taking him from behind while Cas was doing an admirable job of fucking Sammy’s face. Sam, for his part, seemed to be enjoying himself, judging by the obscene noises he was making and the way his impressive erection bobbed with every thrust. They finished simultaneously, and the scene morphed around them. Different motel room, similar scenario. This time, Cas was flat on his back while Sam rode his cock. As they watched, dream-Dean approached from behind and worked himself into Sam alongside Cas. Sam was flushed and groaning, clearly enjoying himself.

“Damn, Sammy. Been holding out on me,” Dean breathed. He was achingly hard himself, just from watching for the last minute.

Cas’s strangled voice startled him out of his reverie. “This is a…pleasurable situation?”

Dean glanced at the angel and snickered. He’d never seen Cas so flustered before. “Yeah. This is a pleasurable situation so long as everyone agreed to it.”

Another glance told Dean the angel still had questions. “Dude, no. I am not getting into the protocols of kinky sex with you right now. Ask Sam when this is all over.” He checked the room again. “Speaking of Sam, what are we doing in his spank bank?”

Cas frowned. “The damage has made Sam’s mind difficult to navigate. This was the most coherent section I could find.”

Dean attempted to parse that into something resembling English. “You mean we found him? That,” he pointed to the Sam currently pounding dream-Cas into the bed while dream-Dean jacked off in the chair watching them, “is really Sam? He’s been having wet dreams while I was out there worrying he was dying?”

Cas glared at Dean. “Most likely, he has retreated here because the rest of his mind has become a hellscape.”

Dean considered that, then returned his gaze to the scene. He sighed. He hated interrupting a good sex dream, but he needed to get Sam conscious ASAP. If they were lucky, maybe he’d be able to make it up to him later.

“Sam. Hey, man, I need you to wake up.”

Sam didn’t respond. Dean wasn’t sure if he was just ignoring him or if the fractured state of his mind was preventing Dean from interacting with him. Either way, Dean moved closer to the bed, placing himself in Sam’s eyeline. Reaching out, he gripped Sam’s shoulder. Sam startled and stared at Dean, before his eyes began to glaze over and he lost himself to the rhythm again.

“Hey, no. Come on, Sam. Stay with me,” Dean said, twisting Sam’s shoulders around to face him. “This isn’t real.”

Sam laughed darkly. “Of course it’s not real. You think my brother would ever want to do this with me after what I’ve done? Or that Castiel would? Me, Lucifer’s vessel, Ender of the World?” He snorted derisively.

Dean blinked in surprise. “Ok, there is so much wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start. But the point is that you’re going to die if you don’t wake up.”

Sam shrugged. “At least I’ll die happy,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of—Sam, I’m real. That Cas, over there, is real. I can tell you for a fact that you can have at least some of this fantasy in real life if you’d just wake up.”

“My brother thinks I’m a freak. But now that the grace is gone, I’m human again. It’s better this way.”

“The hell it is.” Dean thought he might be sick. Was this what Sam thought of him? Of them?

Sam refocused on Dean and wrinkled his forehead. The naked bodies dissipated, though the motel room remained. Dean tried to hold onto hope. This was progress, right?

“Sam, I just— _just—_ got you back. Is this whole situation bizarre? Yes. Of course it is. Even by our standards it’s weird knowing my brother is some sort of half-angel now. But you know what? I don’t care. I would rather have you alive and by my side than—” Dean spread his hands. “Than anything. You name it.”

Sam watched him give his speech, then sadly looked out the door. “I can’t go out there.”

Dean looked from Sam to the door and back again. “Why? Because your memories of Hell are out there?”

Sam gave him a tight nod.

“Sam, I’ve been to Hell. I know you can do this.” He smiled. “You were always the stronger one of us.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, you’ve been to Hell. Dean, that was just the rack.” Dean was taken aback by the pitiless look on Sam’s face, but then his expression softened a little. “Sorry. I know how horrible that was for you. So, please, try to understand this: I looked forward to the days he put me on the rack and just cut. Those were my good days.”

Dean felt nauseous remembering his time in Hell. He couldn’t imagine something worse, much less what would be so much worse that the rack was the preferable option. He’d been willing to torture souls, to do anything, really, to escape that pain. He thought he could, maybe, face that again if he had to, but there weren’t words for what he was asking of Sam. He swallowed hard, realizing there was nothing he could say that could convince Sam. He was going to lose him. The knowledge hit him in the gut, and he thought he might throw up. He turned to Cas, who had been quiet till now. A silent conversation passed between them, then Cas spoke.

“I am sorry that we are asking this of you, Sam.” His voice was rough. “However, you must understand. Raphael will use your grace as a conduit to reach Michael and Lucifer. They will find new vessels, and then they will fight. You know best what that will look like for Earth.”

Sam shook his head. “So go get the grace. What do you need me for?”

Castiel hesitated. “To defeat Raphael.”

Sam started to laugh, the looked at Castiel’s serious face. Dean couldn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t.”

Dean cringed. “You can. You tossed him across the yard the first time you fought him, and you did that injured and without training. Now? I know you can kick his ass.”

Sam’s eyes were wild, panicked. “Then bring me the grace after you take it back from Raphael. We all know that even if I wake up right now I’ll be useless without it.”

Castiel shook his head. “That is too risky.” He continued speaking over Sam’s spluttered protests. “If Raphael escapes, it will be impossible to track him. He will not let his presence be known, and if he ambushes you again he will not be so foolish as to let you live. Bringing you to this fight as you are is dangerous, exceedingly so. However, this is a risk we must take if we hope to succeed. You need to be ready to accept your grace as soon as we have it, thus you must leave this room and face your memories. We cannot do this without you, Sam.”

After a long pause where Dean thought Sam was going to continue to argue, Sam gave a small nod. Dean tried not to notice how pale his little brother looked as he turned to face the door. He spared a glance at Cas while Sam steeled himself, then he clapped a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“We’ll see you on the other side,” Dean said, offering Sam his best proud brother expression.

He thought Sam looked marginally less queasy as he swallowed hard and muttered, “Yeah. See you.”

Dean wished he could do this for Sam, wished it didn’t need to be done. He didn’t bother wishing Sam had never gone to Hell in the first place. It was done. He couldn’t change the past; he’d tried. But this, yeah, he wished there was a viable alternative to making Sam suffer for them again. It didn’t change the fact that he was damn proud of Sam as he pulled open the door and walked into Hell, head held high.

Sam wasn’t sure where he was. Or when. Or who. He thought he was Sam, but he might be Lucifer. Only that didn’t make sense. He hurt. Angels didn’t hurt, right?

Or, or maybe they did. He thought he remembered screaming. Or heard screaming. Not human screaming. Was it him? Or just a memory? He felt so lost, and he just wanted his Dean. Or Cas. If this was Hell, maybe Cas would come to lead him out again.

Wait. Again. Sam latched onto that life raft of a word like a drowning man. He could remember getting out of Hell. Slowly, he managed to piece together enough of his shattered consciousness to realize he was probably awake and in Bobby’s panic room.

The panic room had been a particular favorite in Hell thanks to Sam’s bad memories of detoxing in there, so he wasn’t 100% sure this wasn’t one of Lucifer’s illusions. The tumbler of whiskey on the table that suggested Dean had been here recently helped, but the otherwise empty room didn’t. Maybe Dean had just stepped out. Everyone needed to pee eventually.

Momentarily buoyed by this thought, Sam levered himself to sitting with a groan. He wondered how long he’d been out. Obviously not long enough to justify a hospital, but with an angel for a friend, that didn’t mean much. His body was stiff, more than usual for a morning after a hard sleep. As he worked to organize his thoughts, he realized half of his discomfort was simple thirst and hunger. Easy enough to fix, and maybe he’d find Dean. He had a bad feeling that Dean should have been back by now.

The world tilted dangerously as Sam stood, but steadied after a moment. He carefully shuffled to the door and was relieved to find it unlocked. Not punishment, just safety. For a moment, panic spiked through his brain. What if he was alone because everyone else was gone? They’d been attacked while he slept, safe in the warding of the panic room. Pain bloomed in his chest as he struggled for air, and darkness ate at the edges of his vision.

Suddenly, hands landed on his shoulders, manhandling him into whatever position they wanted. _Lucifer_ , his mind supplied. Sam fought back with all the strength he could muster, but it wasn’t enough. There was shouting, then a cool breeze and the smell of thunderstorms, then blackness.

The next time Sam woke, he was not alone. Dean and Cas were both there, carefully watching him. It was embarrassing, but Sam had to admit he was grateful. The world felt more solid this time around.

“Easy, Sammy.” Dean spoke as Sam slowly shifted himself upright on the cot. His hand on Sam’s back felt warm and reassuring.

“What happened?” Sam asked, realizing he still wasn’t sure what was real and what had been dream.

Dean and Cas shared a glance, then Dean asked, “What do you remember?”

Tough question, when reality felt disturbingly shaky. He remembered a lot, most of it bad. He shoved away the memories of his time in Hell for the moment. Most recent was…Lucifer? He wasn’t sure about that one and didn’t want to ask, so he opted for the most recent memory he had any confidence in. “Raphael jumped me in our motel room.”

Another shared look between Dean and Cas, and Sam was starting to get annoyed by that. This time, Cas broke the silence. “How are you feeling, Sam?”

“Hungry, thirsty. Not bad, considering.” He hoped that trend was going to continue, but he wasn’t optimistic enough to expect it. “How long was I out?”

“Two days,” Dean said, then he went over the plan to take on Raphael. Sam cringed inwardly as he realized he hadn’t imagined Dean and Cas’s visit in his mental landscape.

“You guys were really in my head,” he said flatly. “I didn’t—You w—” He stopped, swallowing both confession and apology. They weren’t supposed to know about those fantasies. Even if Dean had felt something once, or even still did, Cas had never been part of that equation. Besides, Sam was all too aware of how the angel felt about him. Still, he couldn’t apologize for loving them. He sighed, head hanging.

“Sam,” Castiel said, voice full of emotion that Sam couldn’t begin to parse out, “What do you remember about how you escaped Hell?”

“Noth—" The denial died on his lips. He did remember, possibly always had if he’d just looked close enough. It was easier to remember without the grace, though the memories of Lucifer’s torture were constantly threatening to drown him. “You pulled me out.”

“Do you know why?” Cas said, kneeling in front of Sam and gently tilting his head until their eyes met.

Sam managed to maintain eye contact as he shook his head.

“I did it because I could not bear the thought of this world without you in it. I am sorry that I took so long to reach you, that I have been distant lately.”

Sam was speechless. That sounded like—but no. That wasn’t possible. “Cas?” he asked, annoyed at how breathless he sounded.

The angel’s piercing blue gaze never wavered.

Sam glanced at Dean, but his brother’s expression was unreadable. He didn’t look surprised though, so the two of them must have talked while Sam was out. Tentatively, Castiel’s hand came up to cup Sam’s cheek. Sam would have been ashamed of how he leaned into the touch if he could think clearly, but his mind was a fog of disbelief and quavering hope.

“May I?” Cas asked, eyes flicking down to Sam’s mouth.

Sam nodded, and Castiel surged up to press their lips together. Sam’s arms wrapped around the angel while Cas’s hands buried themselves in Sam’s hair. Sam lost himself in the feeling of Cas surrounding him, his grace like a gentle breeze pushing against the madness lurking at the edges of Sam’s mind. He reveled in it, hardly daring to believe that this one thing he thought impossible was really happening.

Dean loudly cleared his throat, and they broke apart, panting. Sam managed to tear his eyes away from Cas long enough to check on Dean and caught him adjusting himself in his pants. Huh. That was not something Sam had been expecting. He felt light-headed, realizing he might actually get a chance at having it all, every last thing he wanted. It felt too good to be true.

With that thought, a wave of cold terror washed over him as his mind happily supplied dozens of scenarios Lucifer had manipulated him with in Hell. Scenarios in which Dean or Cas had saved him. Scenarios in which he was happy, loved and safe until Lucifer threw back the curtain and revealed the lie for what it was. Son of a bitch. He’d thought for sure this time. He’d thought he’d gotten past this stupid, weak, pathetic hope. Dean might have loved him enough once, but not since Sam started the Apocalypse. Cas—well, Castiel had never been subtle about his opinion of Sam. No way this was real, which meant—Sam felt his chest tighten as he struggled for air.

Watching Sam and Cas making out had been unexpectedly hot, as had the lust blown look Sam had leveled at him when he spotted Dean’s erection. The arousal in the air had only lasted a moment though, as Dean watched Sam’s expression falter. He felt his own eyebrows gather in concern that swiftly transformed into alarm as Sam doubled over, hyperventilating.

“Sam?” he said, moving to his brother’s side. “Sam! Cas, what the hell is going on?”

The angel looked stricken where he crouched between Sam’s knees, but he didn’t answer.

Ignoring him, Dean pulled Sam closer, trying to get Sam to make eye contact with him. With Sam pressed to his chest he could hear his little brother muttering nonsense about Lucifer and Hell and how nothing was real. Christ, the kid couldn’t be awake for five minutes without having a panic attack. This was a stupid plan that was going to get them all killed. Cas brushed his fingers against Sam’s forehead, and Sam slumped into Dean’s hold. Dean closed his eyes and clung to his brother while he addressed Cas.

“This isn’t going to work. He can’t fight like this.”

He didn’t look, but he could feel Cas’s resignation in the air. “He needs his grace.”

“We don’t know that’ll help.” Dean frowned, reluctant to voice the fears chasing around his head but needing to know the angel’s contingency plan. “What if—”

“It will work. It must.” Cas’s voice was hard, and Dean wondered if that was how he sometimes sounded to other people. Cas was right, of course. Getting Sam’s grace back to him had to work. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Still, they obviously needed to revise their plan to make sure Sam didn’t get killed before they had a chance to get his grace back to him.

Hours later, Dean shook Sam’s shoulder to rouse him. He looked adorable asleep, but it was time. They finally had a lead on Raphael and they couldn’t afford to wait. Dean saw when Sam’s mind fully clicked back online, the fuzziness from angel-induced sleep clearing as he recognized where he was. Dean didn’t say anything at first, not wanting to provoke another meltdown. He could see the question on Sam’s face, but he wasn’t sure if it was “what happened” or “is this real,” and Dean didn’t want to know. Probably would make the world seem more fake if he addressed the issue, and his goal at the moment was to get Sam upstairs with the others without needing an angel intervention.

Annoyed with how off-kilter he felt, he shoved a glass of water at Sam and half-growled, “We’re good to go, sleepyhead. You coming?” He watched Sam think, trying to decipher the context behind the question. Dean realized his misstep almost immediately. Sam’s mind was a minefield, making him navigate it was just asking for trouble, so he added, “Time to throw down with Raphael, get your mojo back.” To his relief, the confusion in Sam’s expression cleared, replaced with determination.

They met the others upstairs, and before the atmosphere could get too tense and awkward, Cas zapped them to a cemetery. Dean wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. He recognized this place even though he’d only been here once, nearly two years ago. Stull. He swallowed. Cas was right about one thing at least. This was ending today.

Raphael had an altar set up and covered in spell ingredients. Dean couldn’t see the vial of Sam’s grace, but he was sure it was there. The group split, Bobby dragging Sam behind cover while Dean and Cas faced down the archangel. Half a dozen angels flanked Raphael. Dean steeled himself. Outnumbered didn’t begin to cover this scenario. He just hoped Cas could piss Raphael off enough that he went for pain and not the instant kill Dean knew he was capable of.

He shouldn’t have worried. Castiel vanished, reappearing above Raphael. “Hey, assbutt,” he said, dropping a holy oil Molotov on yet another archangel. It was becoming his signature move. That should buy them some time, at least. Dean tried to run to the table—the grace was definitely there, Cas wouldn’t have risked torching it if he didn’t have eyes on it—but he was stopped by two of the angels. They clashed, and it took all of Dean’s attention to stay alive. Getting to that altar was not going to happen, not before Raphael pulled himself together enough to atomize them.

Sam tried to tune out the sound of fighting behind him, but it was impossible. He knew what was happening, but his memories of Michael and Lucifer’s futile clashes in those early years were causing such a visceral reaction that all he could do was rock in place and hum. He hated it. He was not this broken thing, hiding while his family fought for him. Maybe died for him. That—that was unacceptable. He became aware of Bobby next to him, tangling with an angel that had decided the two of them were easy prey.

Sam took a deep breath and surged to his feet. He could do this. He—he needed an angel blade. Cas had already downed two angels, bringing the numbers more in their favor. Sam could see their swords glittering in the dry grass beside their vessels’ bodies.

He lurched over, tuning out a phantom Michael whispering how useless he was. He knew he could do this. He could fight with Dean, protect the people he loved. He didn’t need to be whole to do that. With each step he regained confidence and strength, finally plunging his blade into an angel that had been trying to stab Dean in the back while he finished off another.

Sam grinned at his brother, emotions soaring with the rush of adrenaline. Lucifer whispered, “I broke you,” but it was so easy to ignore in this moment. These were the people that put him back together. The sound of wings and a look of horror on Dean’s face broke the moment.

Sam didn’t register flying across the cemetery, just the pain that exploded through his head and back as he collided with a gravestone. The world spun, and stars erupted across his vision when he tried to move. Breathing hurt, moving hurt. Even sitting still hurt so much he struggled to keep from vomiting. Dimly, he recognized the cold numbness spreading through his lower half as a very bad thing, but it was difficult to remember why. The liquid iron dripping from his mouth was also bad, and contributing to his nausea, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Continuing to draw shaky, painful breathes was taking every ounce of his concentration. Darkness crowded his vision, and the only clear thought he recognized in his muddled brain was, _Not yet._


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel whirled, catching the angel behind him in the abdomen, then spun back around to his right and blocked a second angel’s blade. They clashed for another moment before Cas saw an opening, dropping his second opponent to the ground and giving him space to attack a third. The numbers were thinning, finally, but Raphael would be back any second. Dean was still fighting an angel, and Cas could see the vial of grace on the altar, tucked away safely. His hand closed around it just as he heard Dean’s distressed cry ring out. Turning, he spotted Raphael on the battlefield across from Dean. It took another moment to spot Sam lying limp and bloody. 

He flew to him and crouched by Sam’s head, healing damage as quickly as he could, but Sam was already dying. Cursing silently Castiel lifted Sam’s head, gently tipping the grace into his mouth. 

He could tell when the grace took hold; his healing efforts were suddenly useless. Sam’s eyes opened, and they glowed a brilliant blue before a wave of power lit up the area, throwing Castiel back.

“Sam!” Dean screamed as his brother landed with a sickening crack and fell limp. Nausea threatened Dean’s composure, a dangerous prospect with Raphael just five feet in front of him. But Sam was dead or dying, Dean was sure of it, and he needed to go to him. Wouldn’t do anyone any good if he got himself vaporized though. Raphael smirked and lazily waved in Dean’s direction.

As he tumbled to the ground on his own flight path he caught sight of Cas crouching by Sam. His stomach lurched; Sam should be moving by now if Cas healed him. He tried to have faith—in Cas, in Sam—but his gut was sure the angel had been too late. Grief welled up, numbing him to the world. The world Sam had died for twice, now. Dean staggered to his feet, clenching his angel blade. He wasn’t going to let Sam die in vain. Before he could close the distance to Raphael, though, a surge of power flattened him to the ground.

When Dean raised his head, he saw Sam, wings glowing grace blue and on full display. Thunder rumbled, and Dean would have sworn the earth shook under his hands. He felt power rippling out from his brother. Even though he knew this was exactly what they had been aiming for, Dean felt his stomach flip-flop at seeing Sam look so obviously _other_.

Raphael snarled, then vanished. The battle was on. Dean couldn’t follow most of it—Sam and Raphael flying all over the cemetery in an attempt to gain an advantage. They flung power at each other that whizzed over Dean’s head and exploded gravestones when it landed. The air smelled of ozone, and the temperature had climbed noticeably in the last minute. He and Bobby were going to cook if Sam didn’t end this soon.

Raphael, apparently, had other plans. Dean had lost Cas and Bobby in the scuffle, but as the flurry of wings came to an abrupt halt, he realized the archangel was holding Castiel at knifepoint. Sam looked on, grim determination on his face. He wasn’t faster than Raphael. That much was obvious.

Sam watched Raphael press the tip of his blade into Cas’s throat. A pinprick of grace leaked out, and Sam struggled to keep from reacting. He was exhausted, but his mind was running on overtime, trying to figure out Raphael’s angle here. His chest tightened when he figured it out. He might only match the archangel in speed, but he’d been winning. If he was nearing the limits of his powers, then Raphael must be on his last legs. It didn’t make this situation easier, but it might give them an opportunity. Sam was careful to keep from looking at Dean and Bobby—both positioned behind Raphael, though not close enough to do anything without alerting the angel. Frantically, he tried to come up with a plan. He rifled through their code words for one made for a situation like this. Not Funky Town. Definitely not Poughkeepsie, much as he wanted Dean and Bobby gone and safe. Dancing Queen would work if he could get Dean close. They didn’t have on for “I’m about to use my power on you,” but he’d wager they would going forward. Assuming they survived today.

Sam wasn’t sure he could use his power on Dean without alerting Raphael, but he didn’t see any other options. If it worked, if he could fill Dean in, they might have a shot at this.

Ignoring the spiraling fear he had for Dean and Cas with this plan, he cleared his throat. Raphael had been monologuing about lost causes while Sam thought, and he tuned back into the conversation.

“—think you could beat an archangel? You are nothing more than a filthy half-breed, and I would have killed you already if your stolen grace weren’t necessary to retrieve my brothers.”

“No offense, but I’m not going to let my Brain Stew on that.” _Come on, Dean. Pay attention. I’ve got a plan._ “I’m you’re so convinced you can take me, let’s dance. I’m a regular Dancing Queen these days.” He saw Dean shift his weight out of the corner of his eye. Good. Message received.

Sam reached for his power, trusting it would do as asked if it could, and bent space around Dean until he was right behind Raphael. It happened in an instant, and Sam saw Raphael’s eyes widening in surprise as Dean punched him in the face. It didn’t hurt anyone but Dean, but it drew just enough attention that Sam could fly into close quarters and pulse his power through the archangel. Sam felt it manifest itself in his hand as an angel blade—outwardly similar to all the others he’d seen, but when he tightened his grip, it sang. This blade was his, and only his.

He stabbed upward, catching Raphael in the back under his ribs. Power shot through the blade, and before the angel’s eyes started to glow he knew he’d done it.

The three of them stumbled away and closed their eyes against the supernova. When it was over, Raphael lay sprawled in the grass, wings still sparking as they turned to ash.

Sam hastily checked over Cas, who was essentially uninjured, before turning to Dean. He was holding his hand to his abdomen, radiating pain. Broken ribs or hand, possibly both, if Sam knew anything about his brother.

“Let me see,” he said, reaching for Dean’s rapidly swelling hand.

“I’m fine, Sam. Where’s Bobby?”

“I’ll find him,” said Cas, who promptly vanished.

That left Sam and Dean alone, which made Sam unexpectedly nervous. He pushed it away, opting to continue his little brother duties of nagging Dean until he let Sam check his injuries.

Finally, with a loud sigh and an epic eye roll, Dean acquiesced. Sam gingerly held the broken hand and reached for his power, then stopped. “Can I? Or would you rather Cas healed it?” he asked.

Dean looked surprised. “You can?”

Sam nodded. He’d never done it before, but he knew he could. He could feel the broken bones, knew where they needed to reconnect. It was dizzying. Or maybe he was just tired. Maybe he shouldn’t. He’d probably freaked Dean enough for one day.

“Do it,” Dean said, a little breathless.

“Sam searched his face, looking for uncertainty. It was there, but under something that looked a lot like love. His power trickled out, and the broken hand and bruised ribs were healed in moments. Dean sucked in a breath, but when he released it the tension coiled in his body left too.

It hadn’t taken much to heal Dean, but Sam was apparently already running on fumes from the fight, and his adrenaline high was starting to wear off. He wobbled, caught himself, then distantly heard Dean’s concerned “Sam?” as his knees gave out.

He blinked and lost time. He was on his back, looking up at Dean. His head was pillowed on Dean’s lap, which frankly felt too close to cuddling to be acceptable in Dean’s world. Still, Dean grinned down at him and said, “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. How about next time, you don’t use up the last of your power healing me like a dumbass. Cas could have done that. He can’t heal you though.”

“What?” Sam asked. “I mean, I wasn’t hurt, but—”

Dean’s happy grin transformed into a glower. “Try again. That tumble you took just about did you in, and we all know it.”

“I was fine. The grace—”

“Was still trying to heal you while you were flinging power everywhere. Even super-powered little brothers have a limit, and you hit yours.”

“Sorry,” Sam said, though he really wasn’t. He didn’t like his grace much, but he liked being able to heal Dean, being able to protect everyone from psychos like Raphael. He liked how it buffered the rest of his mind from his time spent in Hell.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. He felt ok—none of the lingering pain or nausea he belatedly realized had dogged him throughout the fight. Still, he didn’t really want to move. Dean’s lap was comfortable, and he was looking at Sam with a fondness he hadn’t seen in weeks. Not since they left Lisa’s. He hardly dared to hope.

The moment was broken when Dean gently shoved at Sam and said, “Come on, Sasquatch. Let’s go home.”

The four of them reappeared in Bobby’s kitchen, and Bobby promptly abandoned the group, muttering about a drink and some sleep.

Dean shifted nervously. He didn’t want to talk about this, but there were things that had to be said. Sam might figure it out without the chick flick moment, but Cas wouldn’t. “Look,” he said, not sure where the rest of that sentence went. He felt their eyes on him. _Man up, Winchester_ , he thought. “When we were in Sam’s head. We saw…things.” He glanced at Sam to gauge his brother’s mood—tense, scared. “Cas, you’ve made it clear how you feel about Sam.”

The angel nodded, expression serious, though his eyes were smiling.

Sam had turned bright red, probably remembering their impromptu make-out session.

“Right. My turn.” He closed the distance to Sam, gripped his brother’s shirt and tugged him in for a brief but heated kiss. They broke apart, panting a little, but stayed in each other’s space. “I’m game if you are.”

Sam choked. “For which part?” he spluttered.

“All of it,” he said simply. “I’ve lost count of how many close calls we’ve had this week, Sam. I’m done avoiding this. And I don’t mind sharing if Cas makes you happy. That work for the two of you?”

Cas hummed in answer and pressed himself along Sam’s back.

Sam looked lost, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m not—” He swallowed. “I’m not exactly human anymore.”

Dean smirked. “Yeah, well, you’re still my pain-in-the-ass brother, and nothing changes that. I’m sure, Sam.”


End file.
